Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I have connections of my own to leverage.
The address from Elizabeth’s diary leads me to a nondescript building in the warehouse district. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between the industrial structures, the streets nearly deserted as workers finish their shifts. I park my car a block away and approach on foot, grateful for the sensible shoes I chose instead of my usual heels.
Betty had marked this location with a simple star. No notes, no explanation—just a star and the date, two weeks before her death. Is it the same warehouse she says she saw someone strapped to a table, the one with the symbols? Guess I’ll find out.
The building appears abandoned, windows boarded, loading dock padlocked. I circle around, looking for any sign of recent activity. At the back, I find what I’m seeking: a side door with a fresh lock, inconsistent with the building’s overall neglect.
I close my eyes, extending my senses beyond human capability. No heartbeats inside. No sounds of movement. If someone uses this place, they’re not here now.
But even with my abilities, the lock is substantial. I can’t pick it and though I might be able to break it down with my strength, that will only make it look like a break-in and raise people’s suspicion. I’ll need to return with better tools, or perhaps—
“Looking for something, Ms. Reid?”
I whirl around, cursing my distraction. Victor Callahan stands a few yards away, hat tipped low against the afternoon sun, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He looks impossibly solid against the industrial landscape, like he was carved from the same materials as the warehouses themselves.
“Mr. Callahan.” I recover quickly, clearing my throat. “Yet another coincidence.”
“Is it?” His mouth quirks slightly. “You’re a fair distance from your usual haunts.”
“I could say the same for you.” I glance meaningfully at the warehouse. “Following me again, detective?”
“Professional curiosity.” He steps closer, and I catch that scent again—amber, tobacco, and that undefinable something that makes my senses heighten. That makes my blood run hot. Makes my legs want to squeeze together.
“Is that so?” I manage to say. “And so how are you here then?”
“This address was mentioned in Elizabeth Short’s circle. I’m guessing you knew that already.”
“Elizabeth had it written down in her diary. No explanation, just a date.”
“I see. A cab driver remembered dropping her off here,” he tells me. “She seemed nervous, he said.”
Callahan moves past me to examine the door, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow passage. That same electric jolt passes between us, and he pauses, eyes meeting mine for a moment too long before turning his attention to the lock.
“Can’t get in?” he asks, voice casual as he tests the handle.
“No. I’m not much of a lock picker.”
He nods. “You casing the place?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just mild amusement. “Or trying to cover something up?”
“Investigating,” I correct him, annoyed that he’d think I’ve got something to hide. Well, more than the usual. “The same as you.”
He turns to face me, leaning against the door, the brim of his hat keeping his face in shadow, except for the jut of his strong chin and those lips that look more enticing by the second.
“You should have told me you were planning a visit here,” he says.
“If I had, would you have let me come alone?”
He smirks. “Absolutely not.”
I take a step closer, noting how he doesn’t back away. “I like a protective man,” I tell him. “Not sure I need one, though.”
“I have feeling you don’t know what you need, dollface,” he says, the implication hanging in the air, causing the tension between us to become something palpable.
“The truth, Callahan. The truth about Betty.”
“Then we’re on the same page. Wouldn’t you say?”
I know he’s right. “We do seem to be working the same angles. Might be more efficient to pool our resources.”
Something shifts in his expression—interest, perhaps, or wariness. “Marco Russo wouldn’t approve of that arrangement.”
“Marco doesn’t own me.”
Callahan studies me carefully. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t believe he does.” A pause. “Though he seems to think otherwise.”
“My relationship with Marco is…complicated.” I offer no further explanation.
“Most things worth having are.” His gaze is too perceptive, seeing too much. “He someone worth having?”
I swallow hard and change the subject. “Do you have a way past this lock, or are we just going to stand here admiring it?”
A genuine smile this time, transforming his face from merely handsome to something that makes my chest tighten. He reaches into his pocket and produces a set of lock picks.
“Ladies first,” he says, stepping aside after working the lock with practiced efficiency.
The warehouse interior is cavernous and dark, what little daylight filters through cracks in the boarded windows revealing a mostly empty space. The air smells of dust, mildew, and something metallic and familiar that makes my throat constrict.